


Porny Epilogue (Now With Added Angst)

by MojoFlower



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Alpha Derek, Alternate Universe - Daemons, Alternate Universe - His Dark Materials, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Consent is a thing, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Daemons, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Fennec Fox, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Hurt Derek, M/M, Mates, Mating Bond, Nurturing Stiles, PWP, Pack Mother Stiles Stilinski, Panic Attacks, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Stiles, Raven - Freeform, Recovery, Rimming, Scent Marking, Scenting, Sixty-nine, Slow Burn, Smuff, Smut, Top Derek, Touch-Starved, Virgin Stiles, Well - Freeform, dealing with deep-seated fears and insecurity, emotionally hurt that is, he's not bleeding, if 7k words counts as 'slow', instead of repressing them, kidnapping recovery, let's put it that way, no condoms because werewolves don't need condoms, referenced past sexual abuse (that's Kate y'all), sassy daemon, sort of, that developed a little plot, that grew a little out of control, they do need lube tho, this is a porny epilogue for someone else's fic, who doesn't take shit, zoemathemata
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 01:29:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5315105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MojoFlower/pseuds/MojoFlower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Nisi snorts and yanks an errant curl, getting a little nasty in her frustration.  “That's bullshit and you know it, Der.  You liked it.  You liked touching Sofer, you liked smelling Stiles and her in our bed.  And I know you can feel it too, you muscle-bound pessimist:  how good it is when I’m with them.  Why do you refuse to come with me when I go?”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>In which Derek struggles to navigate his emotions and accept what’s on offer right in front of him.  His daemon Nisi is having none of his shit.  Stiles and Sofer wait for him to pull his head out of his ass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [You Could Taste Heaven Perfectly](https://archiveofourown.org/works/873828) by [zoemathemata](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoemathemata/pseuds/zoemathemata). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an entirely unsolicited response to **[You Could Taste Heaven Perfectly](http://archiveofourown.org/works/873828)** by [zoemathemata](http://archiveofourown.org/users/zoemathemata/pseuds/zoemathemata). The author noted that there might be a porny epilogue, but that was over two years ago.  So I did that thing I do, where porn accidentally happens (eponymously!).   _Boom_ , 4.7k words of fucking.  In the most romantic way, of course.  Because I’m classy like that.  But then, my amazing friend and beta [scienceofobsession](http://archiveofourown.org/users/scienceofobsession/pseuds/scienceofobsession) (who, bless her generous heart, is both a brand new mother and _not even in this fandom_ ) pointed out that it needed _feelings_ and _background_ , and _coherency_ … And thus angst was born (lol, both my own and Derek’s), and a tiny bit of plot, and 8k _more_ words.  So now I present to you this behemoth in lieu of a simple pwp.
> 
> (Science has a busy life, only part of which is dedicated to making me a better writer, so I had to go out in the world and find new betas. Actually, [bootsnblossoms](http://bootsnblossoms.tumblr.com) found them for me: [domachenkov](http://domachenkov.tumblr.com), [neverwhere](http://neverwhere.london/) and [dragonlover44](http://dragonlover44.tumblr.com/) generously stepped up to the plate with valuable insights, and you may thank them all that this isn’t a complete mess.)
> 
> Thank you to [zoemathemata](http://archiveofourown.org/users/zoemathemata/pseuds/zoemathemata) for her kind (and very prompt) permission to dabble in her world.  You need to read [Taste Heaven](http://archiveofourown.org/works/873828) (7k, T) first, to give you context.
> 
> ***If you’re unfamiliar with daemons, Teen Wolf or need a quick summary of Taste Heaven, please see notes at the end.

Derek tries to ignore the caustic sensation of _stretching_ in his chest, pressing the heel of his hand hard over his breastbone, as if that will alleviate the pain.  It feels like his guts are being spun into a fragile strand and pulled, barbed and burning, through a hole in his sternum.  Everything in him is crying out _too far_ , and _stop_ , and _come back_.  But he says nothing, just tries to literally hold himself together, hands pushing against his breast to protect himself from something no mere hand could prevent.

Weaving through the discomfort he so stoically attempts to disregard, he can still feel Nisi’s frustration with him, even though the bond is weak, attenuated with distance.  She’s angry.  Impatient.  And hurting.  She’s hurting, but not coming to him for mutual solace.  She’s _choosing_ the pain.  (Just as he once had.  But that is something he tries to never think about.)

Both Derek and his daemon have been frayed for days, nerves a raw network on the outsides of their skin.  Everything is _too much_ , overwhelming.  Which has actually been pretty much a constant state in Derek’s life for the past ten years.  He thinks it should be easier to handle by now.  But Nisi leaving him like this hasn’t happened since….  Since.

When she left today, she was both sneering and mournful, so _miffed_ that Derek’s head had evidently taken up permanent residence in his ass (her exact words).

He knows when she reaches her destination.  Through the anemic resonance of their bond, he feels the sudden lift of her spirits, the warm current of contentment, subdued excitement.  Guiltily, he surreptitiously hoards the faint echo of her _relaxing_ , as if the stress built up between now and the end of yesterday’s visit could at last be released.

Derek sits silently in the straight-back chair in his bedroom.  His gut swoops like some crazed bat, and he counts each agonizing minute of her absence, watching his claws emerge and contract, leaving behind small tears in his jeans, the pungent aroma of blood visceral on the occasions when he grips too hard.

There it is, the shudder of pleasure as unseen hands rest on the nape of his neck.  Derek stifles a humiliating whine.  Nisi’s thrum of bliss, safety and inclusion conflict entirely with Derek’s isolation, confusion and fear.

He’s a voyeur to his own daemon, surely distinguishing him as a cultural singularity:  an acclaim he’d never have voluntarily sought.  Attempting to bury his withering shame, he assuages the pain of _stretching_ with those ghostly fingers, sifting through his feathers, scratching along the join of his wings.  His beak cards through warm, soft fur, and, for this stolen moment, Derek _belongs_.

It is the same the next day.  And the next.  Nisi shows a modicum of sensitivity and only leaves him when none of the betas are around to witness it.  But leave she does, snarking when Derek tries to ask her to stay.

So Derek waits in his room.  Shoulders and spine rigid, knees spread and feet planted firmly.  He’s a survivor, he’ll survive this.  And yet, with the pure physical pain of the strained bond, even from two miles away, he can feel comfort and relaxation.  Laced like tiny treasures in his maelstrom of misery and discomfort are moments when he feels a touch, when he imagines the soft coos of his raven as she's cosseted, the tiny rattling purr he'd heard from Sofer that night.  He grinds his teeth against the _stretch_ , pretends to hear Stiles' voice, talking to both of them in the tone he uses for Sofer:  teasing and loving and intimate.

Derek endures.

And Nisi comes back.  Every day, she comes back to him.  Her tongue may be more acerbic, but her eyes shine a little brighter and her feathers are glossy and groomed.

They share so much, however, wolf and daemon, that neither can be content or pained in isolation from the other.  And so their nerves are volatile webs laid on the wrong side of the armour of their feathers and fur.

It doesn’t matter, Derek thinks.

They have weathered worse than this.

 

***

 

It’s Pack Saturday.  A full week now since Derek had been kidnapped and rescued.  He chews on the inside of his cheek, absently watching and analyzing his pack as they train.  Lydia has a surprising advantage over the wolves, since her daemon Penwyn, an enormous male orangutan weighing nearly 300lbs, can literally pick her up and sweep her through the trees if she needs a quick escape.  Which he has just done.  Right now, Boyd and Erica are chasing her, laughing.  Although Pogo, Boyd's spectacled bear, is also arboreal, he doesn’t have the ability to swing from tree to tree that Penwyn does.  Erica is half-shifted and growling in tandem with her leopard Mennalphy, both of them bounding off tree trunks as they run.

Scuffling and crashing just out of sight distinguish Scott and Isaac, the overloud crepitation as they roll around in dry autumn leaves informing Derek that they're wrestling.  Their laughter and low-voiced smack-talk is interrupted by random and irrepressible howling.  Scott's border collie daemon joins in and Isaac's Keelin howls as well.  A lemur howl has always sounded like air escaping from a balloon to Derek;  and although it usually makes him smile, at least internally, today his face is set in a permanent scowl.

Seated on the newly-rebuilt porch, shoulders hunched inside his leather jacket even though the day is unseasonably warm, Derek keeps his clenched fists between his knees and one eye warily on his daemon.  Nisi is as sassy as Derek is sullen, and she soars over the clearing around the house, cawing nonsense just to be heard.  He is still jittery, on edge from the trauma of the week before, avoiding sleep when he can, because it’s plagued by nightmares of a hunter determined to hollow him into a soulless and biddable weapon by keeping him forcibly apart from his daemon.  Nisi’s daily excursions aren’t helping either.

It is a crisp afternoon in November, and the pack are all healthy and safe.  Derek tells himself he has no reason to be so unsettled and anxious.  He works his tense jaw from side to side and glares at Stiles, who is on the far side of the driveway, talking to Allison as she sets up a new target for crossbow practice.  Allison's albatross waddles confidently by her side as they move back towards the small table they've set up to hold various weapons.  

Stiles' daemon can only be inferred by the slight bulge under his shirt, held steady by one long-fingered hand.  The other arm gesticulates wildly as Stiles argues some point, and Allison dodges the flailing with the grace of years of experience, a sweet, calm smile on her face.

As if he can feel Derek's stare, Stiles abruptly stills and glances over.  Derek immediately looks away, swallowing hard.  He doesn't know what to make of Stiles and Sofer.  Last week Sofer had been paramount in his rescue.  When he first saw the reclusive daemon in his cell, he marveled that she was so tiny.  No bigger than a cat, she seemed too delicate to have tunneled through so much earth to reach him.  And then she had touched him, without hesitation, offering nothing more than comfort while he tried to recover enough strength and equilibrium to stand and fight.

He’s still trying to absorb this shift in his world-view.  Except for his parents and siblings, Derek has never touched another's daemon outside of a sexual relationship, even then it was awkward and uncomfortable.  He expected the taboo act to feel wrong, like the jolt of a 9-volt battery on his tongue.  But it hadn't.

He’s mulled over it ceaselessly following the rescue, hunkered down in the safety of his den.  He considered how naturally Sofer’s skull had fit into his palm, how the cold wriggle of her nose against his neck had been so easy to accept.  How when he held her in his hands, his heart felt a little bit warmer.  How he could feel, through her touch, Stiles’ deep concern and desperate desire to get him safely back.

He'd been profoundly sick when Sofer finally reached him, after two days of missing Nisi so much he could scarcely stand or think straight.  His stomach was in freefall and he'd been panting through his mouth for so long, fighting nausea, that his lips were cracked and dry;  but the rest of him was filmy with cold sweat.  When he finally stood, Sofer patiently quiescent in his trembling hands, his balance was iffy at best.  It was hard to think in a linear fashion, every faltering beat of his heart crying _Nisi, Nisi, Nisi_.

Holding Sofer actually _helped_ , rather than merely being inoffensive, allowed him to manage until he finally reached Nisi, fluttering feebly in Stiles' hands, trying to get to her human. Her caws for him were thin and utterly wretched, and still echo in his nightmares.  To comfort himself, he replays the moment he finally got to hold Nisi close, stroking over dulled feathers with a fierce and gasping kind of gratitude, world shrinking to the pinprick of Nisi's gleaming, frantic eyes.  He remembers Stiles remaining right there, holding onto Derek's arm just above the elbow, steadying him, a bulwark against the rest of the world while he reconnected with his daemon.

That night, they wound up in the same bed.  Exhausted, and more than pleased to have the soft, warm presence of Sofer against him, intensifying the heartening feedback between Nisi and himself, Derek simply gestured at Stiles to climb in.  The cozy, indiscriminate tangle of human, werewolf and daemons they’d formed had felt soothing and safe and _right_.

 _They'd need to talk about this_ , Derek had thought.  But not right then.

And, Derek being Derek, he had managed to avoid talking about it for a full week at this point.  Nisi drops out of the sky like a rock and lands, deliberately clumsy, on his shoulder, curling one claw just inside the collar of his jacket, deeply enough that he knows she's drawn blood.  (Nisi knows it too, the brat.)  Then she nips at his ear, closing down hard and twisting.  Derek jerks back and swats at her.  “Stop it, Nise!” he grits out.  “What're you doing that for?”

Nisi flaps upward to dodge his hand and then lands on his other shoulder.  She ruffles all her feathers and thrusts her head forward until one blackcurrant eye is only about an inch away from Derek's own.  “You _know_ what it's for, Sourwolf.  For being such an _idiot_.”

Derek grabs her beak and waggles it to and fro a few times.  “I'm not being an idiot,” he protests, quietly, because it doesn't behoove the Alpha to be seen arguing with his own daemon.

“Are,” Nisi counters, and her raucous raven-cackle draws Stiles' attention from the weapons table.  Derek hunches his shoulder and turns a little bit, hiding his face from Stiles' curious expression.  Nisi continues, with brutal honesty, “You're a child and a coward, and I _know_ you're just as unimpressed with you as I am right now.”

Derek growls at her, although he knows it is an empty threat and so does Nisi.  “Look.  It was a – .  All the touching.  It was just a... moment of trauma.  It doesn't really mean anything.”

Nisi snorts and yanks an errant curl, getting a little nasty in her frustration. “That's bullshit and you know it, Der. You liked it. You liked touching Sofer, you liked smelling Stiles and her in our bed. And I know you can feel it too, you muscle-bound pessimist: how good it is when I’m with them. Why do you refuse to come with me when I go?”

Derek starts chewing the inside of his cheek again.  There’s a sudden gust of wind, and he watches orange and brown leaves tumble over dead grass.  Stiles is wearing a green and blue flannel that catches the breeze and flaps wildly behind his back until he turns around to fasten a few buttons, laughing.  “It's not that,” Derek says quietly, figuring his betas are too busy to listen in.  “It's.  Stiles is _young_ , okay?  And he didn't really have any kind of choice.  He just did what any decent person would do.”  Derek doesn't mention that his acquaintance with decent people has been few and far between for many years.  “It wasn't a.  Not a.  Like, a deliberate come-on, you know?”

Nisi, who learned this trick from Laura, has always been able to encapsulate in a single look what an idiot she finds Derek to be.  He doesn't like it any better now than he has the hundreds of other times she's done it.  “Yeah.  And you're shutting him down and hiding out because, why?”

Derek growls again, annoyed.  Nisi _knows_ why he is avoiding Stiles;  she is just enjoying making him feel even worse.  Nisi has recovered from their ordeal somewhat faster than Derek, possibly because she is making daily visits to Stiles' house to snuggle with him and Sofer, then smugly reporting the details of these encounters to Derek in an irritating and unending stream.

Stiles hasn't spent the night again, of course, because of school, so this is the first day he's been back.  He texted a few times following the kidnapping and rescue, but Derek ignored the messages, since they had nothing to do with research or pack business, but rather were tentative overtures like, _How are you holding up?_  and _Do you need someone to talk to?_  Which answers were obviously _Fine_ and _There's nothing to talk about_.

There might also be an element of shame in Derek's avoidance.  Stiles has always ruffled Derek’s composure, and Derek never knows what to make of his own wayward response:  a two-pronged zinger of irritation and inappropriate lust.  How Derek previously dealt with it was through sheer rudeness and physical domination, which always ratcheted up the tension between them in a disturbing yet unsettlingly satisfying manner.  And the worse Stiles behaved towards him in return, the more Derek liked it.

But as he looks back now, all he can think is that all those interactions were a terribly poor payment for Stiles' rescue:  both of him and, somehow more importantly, of Nisi.  Derek can think of no one else he'd have chosen to hold and comfort his traumatized daemon than Stiles and Sofer;  can't even _fathom_ anyone else doing so.  In exchange, Stiles has a long history of Derek pushing him into walls, cuffing the back of his head, and insulting his intelligence and his skills.  Derek doesn’t _mean_ any of it, but he's aware enough to know that Stiles can't read his mind.

Derek's been an ass, and Stiles has saved him more than once.  Two hours in the pool looms reproachfully in his memories.

A lot of it is that Derek simply doesn't know how to relate anymore.  When his family was brutally murdered, burned in their beds by an entirely psychopathic Kate Argent, he at least was left with his sister.  Later, when they lived in New York, Laura had pushed him to get out there socially.  But even with a few years between them and the tragedy, he couldn’t make himself do it.  Clearly he couldn't read anyone's character:  look how devastatingly wrong he'd been about Kate.  He couldn't trust his own judgement, and the price for learning that lesson was so agonizingly steep that he just arranged his life so that he'd never risk it again.

It seemed a simple dialectic to Derek:  if he didn't bring anyone into his life, they couldn't betray or hurt him.  If he didn’t love anyone, then they could never be used against him.  And, he amended several years later, standing over Laura's bisected corpse, if he never let anyone into his heart then it wouldn't be broken when they left.  He felt like the sum of his experience was losing people he loved, losing them because he miscalculated a situation or misjudged the people he allowed in his life.

Having to kill his Uncle Peter hadn't helped, cementing in Derek's mind that he couldn't trust.   _He couldn’t trust_ , and if he did, people all around him were going to be savagely hurt, at the least.

He's been Alpha of his own little pack for a couple of years now, and has learned to carve out some emotional space for his betas.  But the feelings he has for them are based on responsibility and protective vigilance, rather than affection and kinship.  He is even more distant from the humans in his pack:  Allison, Lydia and, in the beginning, Stiles.

When Stiles began to worm his way under Derek's defenses (something that happened near-immediately), he'd responded by coming out swinging, viscerally terrified that everything he'd scrabbled to build out of literal ashes would be endangered again.  Afraid that opening his heart would mean catastrophe, because years of traumatic experience supports that conclusion.

It makes Nisi _crazy_.  “You're a cringing old man, Sourwolf,” she'd snap at him, tweaking his ear or pecking his chin.  “You're so full of bitterness and fear that I'm amazed you can even function at all.  You don't think I know how much we've been hurt?  Why can't you see that the answer is to _find good people_.  Not to hide away for eternity.  It's gonna kill us, Der.”

Nisi’s unflinching take on reality is something she learned from Laura and Dahanain.  Mostly, Derek loves it, loves that Nisi’s personality was sculpted from admiration of the person they’d loved best.  When they were young, Derek and Nisi had always followed their future alpha and her daemon around with big, fascinated eyes, watching as Laura grew and learned, always best at whatever she’d tried, seemingly effortless.

Now, when Nisi speaks, Derek hears Laura in her tart tone, her wicked humor, the cadence of her speech.  It’s simultaneously bittersweet and reassuring.

Over the years, Nisi and Derek have had more acrimonious confrontations about the walls he has built around his heart than any other topic, and Derek feels even more shame over having such a conflict with his daemon.   _Your daemon represents your soul,_ goes the popular aphorism.  What does it mean about Derek that his daemon thinks he's a repressed bonehead?  What does it mean about him, that even his daemon doesn't want to support him?  Nisi has been berating him on the topic more and more this past week, angry that he won't admit to their need, that he perceives it instead to be their greatest weakness.

So after the kidnapping, confusion and self-loathing prevent him from talking to Stiles about what happened, about how they've touched each other's daemons without discomfort.  About the one night they spent together, peaceful and content, cuddled up with each other and the other’s daemon.

And now, every day since, Nisi goes on a Stiles/Sofer visit, glaring at Derek for being a coward before she takes to the air.  Her leaving _hurts_ , it really does:  it’s too far.  But Nisi barrels through her end of the pain because she's mad at him for being so resistant and so blind.  And Derek grimly suffers through his own, hiding in his house, tense and sick and guilty until she returns and he can bury his hands under her feathers again, mute from anger and shame.

The difference between them is that Nisi's agitation gets soothed, Sofer's little pink tongue rasping along her beak feathers, and Stiles’ deft fingers scratching along the back of her head, until she comes home half-stoned on all the touching and affection.

It's debilitating and disorienting, how torn apart he's feeling these days, and Nisi's evidently finished dealing with it.  She hops to his other shoulder and shrieks in his face, pecking hard at his chin.  “You're gonna send everyone home after this meeting and Stiles is gonna stay, and you're gonna _fix this_ , Derek.  You're making us feel _awful_ , and I'm tired of it.”

She flaps off before he can answer, circles the clearing once and then lands gently on Stiles.  She flamboyantly nuzzles her beak behind his ear before bending to poke it into the neck of his hoodie, doubtlessly ranting to Sofer about her idiot human.

Allison stiffens in surprise when Nisi lands on Stiles as if it's something that happens all the time, and then turns with lifted brows to Derek, who pointedly ignores her mimed question.  Lydia and Penwyn have returned from the woods, and he can feel both their eyes shifting thoughtfully between him and his traitorous daemon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In **[Taste Heaven](http://archiveofourown.org/works/873828)** , Derek is kidnapped and separated from Nisi (his raven daemon), which causes him a great deal of pain and despair. Nisi makes it to Stiles and Sofer (Stiles’ daemon, a reclusive fennec fox), telling them what happened. Stiles comforts (and touches!) Nisi while they get to Derek and effect a rescue. Derek, Stiles and their daemons crawl into bed together at the end, but do nothing more than fall asleep.
> 
> If you are unfamiliar with His Dark Materials, just know that people have animal companions called daemons that are physical manifestations of their souls. They come into the world with them and then die with them. Daemons can be any kind of animal, which often reflects their human’s character. It is taboo to touch another’s daemon unless you’re lovers. Killing a daemon kills its human and vice versa. There’s a short little [primer](http://foxxcub.livejournal.com/405341.html) over on LJ if you’d like.
> 
> If you’re new to Teen Wolf (*waves at my Sherlock friends*), just know that Derek (about 25) is a broody, gorgeous (omg, so gorgeous), muscley, angsty Alpha werewolf with a pack of teenage betas comprised of both weres and humans. Stiles is a human: he’s young (although I’m putting him at 18 just for the sake of underage tagging) and spastic and dorky and we all love him to pieces. Werewolves’ eyes flash colors (Alphas’ are red), they’re very into scent and scenting, and having a mate is a thing. Also they can hear other people’s heartbeats, use it to tell if they’re lying, and sniff out emotions such as lust and fear. There. I think I’ve covered it.


	2. Chapter 2

Ignoring the curious stares of his pack, Derek sticks it out for several increasingly awkward minutes, face carefully expressionless.  But he can feel his eyes flashing red as his tension and anxiety grow;  the pack’s blatant scrutiny of his daemon’s proximity to Stiles is making his skin crawl.  Finally, Derek surges up and stalks inside, closing the door firmly behind him (he doesn’t slam it, and counts that as a win), a protective barrier between him and the dawning realization lighting faces that have no right to be judging him.

His stomach curdles with burgeoning nausea.  Being at odds with his daemon has never felt good, and so close on the heels of last week's kidnapping it makes him nearly as shaky and sick as the forced distance from her did then.  But Nisi's never been one to let him do something she disapproved of without comment, even if it leads to hurting both of them.

She'd passionately hated Kate and Apollyon, a sly little mink who in retrospect should have been a giant red flag from the start.  Nisi’s stubborn refusal to go along on their dates is one of the reasons that she and Derek can now separate by a distance considered unusual even for wolves, and ironically is probably why the kidnapping last week hadn’t outright killed them.  It had been _painful_ , back then, learning to cope with stretching such a distance;  but of course both of them were too pigheaded to cave in.

He stands aimlessly in the foyer.  The pack are chatting and curious, but although he hears them talk, the sounds won’t congeal into language:  it might as well be a backwards recording.  After a while, he hears car doors slam as they go home.  He feels cold;  unmoored, drifting in a vertiginous, terrifying way, no anchor in reach.  Nisi is still with Stiles, he can feel it even if he can’t hear them, three sets of heartbeats remaining in the yard.

Derek finds himself in the kitchen, staring unseeing at the refrigerator and swallowing down bile.  His hands are shaking, he notes distantly, as he wipes clammy sweat from his forehead.  Breathing is becoming difficult, and he feels ice flash through his veins.  

This is punishment.  Nisi's punishing him and he's punishing himself;  he doesn't even know what for anymore, just has the terrified notion that Nisi's going to leave him _alone_ and never come back.  His throat grows tight against tears, and he digs his nails into his palms.  When he was kidnapped, they were going to be separated whether they liked it or not, which was awful.  But now it'll be something she _chooses_ to do, and that's indescribably worse.

His daemon wants to leave him.  His breath freezes in his lungs with a thin wheeze.

It's such a bleak prospect, such a _shattering_ thought, that he has to push one fist against his mouth to keep from whimpering like a cub.  He doesn't want to call out for Nisi, because he's in the wrong, he knows he is;  and he's suddenly drowning in ignominy, achingly aware that he's despicable, and he doesn't deserve his daemon anyway, that she's right to leave him, that he's simply so broken and inadequate he can’t give her what she needs.  His fist presses harder until he can feel the inside of his lower lip part around the sharp edge of a tooth, and the taste of blood is galvanizing, that bloom of heat and iron:  he can't hold back the nausea anymore.

Derek lurches into the small downstairs bathroom, blindly falling in front of the toilet, curling forward to heave his lunch into the bowl.  He can hear Nisi's frantic cries outside, and is dimly aware that she can't get in the house because the door is closed, but right now he's too busy throwing up to do anything about it.  One hand clutches at the vanity and the other pushes against the wall, trying to keep himself from falling over, because the bathroom has mostly receded into a gray kind of mist and it's spinning and spinning terribly.

There's a barely audible _woosh_ and the pressure changes in the house, alerting Derek that the front door's been opened.  Only a few seconds later, Nisi flutters to the back of his neck, hunkering down and shuddering, beak pressed to the hinge of his jaw as he chokes up more bile and eventually just rests his forehead on the seat.  Nisi twitters;  slight, quiet little sounds, too upset to talk.  Derek hears Stiles kneel behind him, one hand curled protectively around Nisi to ensure she doesn't fall off him and into the toilet.

The warmth of his touch transmits from Nisi to Derek, as if Stiles' hand were on _him_ instead;  and he can feel, as Nisi does, affection and acceptance.   _Refuge_.  God, he wants to cry.

“Dude.  Derek,” Stiles sounds more startled than judgmental.  “What happened?  First Nisi told Sofer and me to send everyone home when you went inside, and then she started going _nuts_.  I thought she was gonna break her neck against the door trying to get in.”

Derek stays where he is for a moment more, not speaking, just soaking in Nisi's presence, her little coos and mumbles steadying him enough to move.  When he finally sits back on his heels, Stiles catches Nisi and gently puts her against Derek's chest, where his hands instinctively come up to cradle her.  He goes to wipe his mouth with his sleeve, but Stiles stops him with a,  “No, gross.  Hold on, dude, let me get a cloth,” and stands up.  Sofer wiggles to the floor, and hops up onto Derek's thighs, nosing into Nisi's feathers and Derek's belly indiscriminately.  She chatters to Nisi, but as always when someone else's daemon speaks, Derek doesn’t know what she's saying.  He hardly knows what Stiles is saying.

Stiles flushes the vomit away and wipes a cool washcloth across Derek's face.  “There you go, man.  Can you stand?  You look like shit.”  He dumps the rag in the sink and runs his fingers quickly through Derek’s hair before putting them behind his back, as if uncertain he’s allowed to touch.  “We, should, uh, get out of here if you're done.  Uh.  Throwing up, I mean.  Smells awful.  It's making _me_ want to puke.”

Derek warily looks up at him, but Stiles’ face is curved into a tentative smile.  There's a crease between his eyebrows, and his eyes are soft and narrowed with concern.  He holds out his hand to help Derek up but grabs an elbow instead, since both Derek's hands are somehow occupied with a couple of daemons.

Stiles leads him to the sofa and sits him down, vanishing into the kitchen briefly for a bottle of water, which he puts on the side table within Derek's reach.

Derek, meanwhile, holds both daemons against his chest.  Although they weigh about the same, Nisi is twice Sofer's size, even hunching in and making herself small the way she's doing now, echoing Derek’s body language.  He’s still shaky and tries to focus on breathing.  In and out.  In and out.  Derek drops his head to nose against Nisi, and Sofer lifts up on her front paws to lick the scruff on his cheek.

It's comforting, and for two such small creatures, it feels like they're touching Derek everywhere.  He huffs in the mingled scent of all of them, himself and the daemons and Stiles, who sits down close to his side, puts one diffident hand around the back of Derek’s neck and the other over Sofer and Nisi both.

“What happened, big guy?” Stiles asks again.  “Was that a panic attack?  Is this about last week?”  Derek can’t meet his eyes, too embarrassed and too raw.  Sofer chatters, and Stiles rubs his thumb cautiously along the side of Derek's neck.  “Sofer says you’ve been arguing with Nisi?”

Derek stifles a needy sound, the yawning chasm inside him roaring with the potential for abandonment.  He shakes his head, rolling his lips between his teeth and closing over them _hard_ , unwilling to speak in case his voice breaks and disgraces him.

Nisi stretches up along his chest to rest the side of her beak against his jugular.  “I wouldn't leave you,” she whispers.  “I _couldn't_ leave you, you idiot.”  Her tone is anguished and on the edge of tears, rather than accusatory or derisive, and it’s a balm.  “And even if I _could_ , I don't want to.   _Never_.”  Derek nods, is peripherally aware of Sofer's purr, gently vibrating his chest.  “Just.  We can be _more_ , Derek.  We've been _so lonely_ , and now we can have Sofer and Stiles, and it's _better_.  I know you think so, too.  I don't understand why you won't come with me when I go to their house.  Why you won't admit what we need, what we _want_ , when it's hurting us both.”

Derek takes in a ragged breath and nods again.  “Yeah,” he says.  His voice is thin and high, sounds as fragile and ephemeral as he feels, and his face moves uncomfortably as he struggles not to let it contort into emasculating tears.

Sofer chatters softly to Stiles, and Derek sort of hopes she's telling him what's going on, because he suddenly feels threadbare and exhausted, the adrenaline produced by his panic attack vanishing in the aftermath.  He doesn’t want to tell Stiles of his foolishness.  Fretting over his daemon abandoning him is absurd:  such a thing has never been documented.  It is literally impossible, as both would die, too inextricably bound to separate.

But this unfounded fear showcases Derek's vulnerabilities and inadequacies:  his low self-worth and deeply denied clingy desperation, the unpalatable qualities that guide so many of his decisions.  He can't be a proper Alpha while simultaneously being such a mess inside.  It's one of the reasons he holds back so much, afraid to expose himself, to not be respected and feared once they see how weak he truly is.

Stiles tilts his head in until it gently knocks Derek's own.  The bristly edge of his closely shorn hair tickles Derek’s temple.  “Hey.  Sofer says it was, like, completely agonizing for you whenever Nisi came to visit.”

Derek swallows and stiffens, keeping his eyes on the faint purple shimmer on Nisi's feathers.  He shrugs a little.

“I didn't know.  We can stop.  Do you want us to stop?” Stiles asks, and that starts both daemons talking, Sofer’s soft babble and Nisi's plaintive, “No!  No!  You feel so good, and we're so lonely, and we _need_ you.  We _need you._ ”  She scrambles over Sofer, wings flapping awkwardly, and pushes her head under Stiles' chin.  “Don't let us go.”  Startled, Stiles gently closes his hands around her body, clasping her wings to her side.  He dips his chin a little to rub it across her head before looking back up at Derek.

Derek shivers at the gentle electric buzz transmitted through his touch, and doesn’t think about the ease and confidence with which Stiles handles Nisi, denoting experience that’s happened outside Derek’s presence.  He  meets Stiles’ gaze and is instantly trapped.  Over the past two years, more often than he’d like to admit, he has had the disquietingly infatuated thought that Stiles' eyes are beautiful:  such a luminous and clear shade of brown.  But what is even more appealing about them is the lively intelligence that brightens them up, the unabashed display of emotions, currently worry and affection and confusion.

Derek opens his mouth to speak and then remembers, _vomit-breath_ , and quickly turns away to down the entire bottle of water in one go.  He looks at Sofer instead, the enormous sails of her ears swiveling attentively towards him, her one good eye clearly focused, the other milky under the furrow of the scar across her face.  She's so small, and her lungs so tiny, that she breathes very rapidly;  it affects her purr, which rises and falls as fast as her breaths.  Derek wraps his hand over her back, and she twists around to lick at the web of skin between finger and thumb, calming Derek with the small action.

Stiles' eyes droop and go hazy at the reflected touch, and he unconsciously leans even closer, head again laid alongside Derek's, although he thoughtfully avoids eye contact.  They all settle into this new stillness for long minutes.

“No, don't stop,” Derek eventually replies.  His voice is strained, coming out of a throat scoured by the wash of acid shortly before.  “Nisi likes it.  I've just been – ”  He runs Sofer's giant ear through finger and thumb, tugging on it unthinkingly, and laughs a little, self-deprecating.  “Dumb.  I've just been dumb.  And I wanted to.  I worried that.”

“He doesn't think he's _worthy_ ,” Nisi says aloud, to Sofer, but the comment is aimed at Derek, and her tone implies she thinks that is ludicrous in so many ways, and she's _fed up with this bullshit_.

Sofer, traitorous little punk, relays this instantly to Stiles, who says, “What do you mean, _unworthy_?”

Derek rolls his eyes, and fights his instinct to leap to his feet and leave in a temper.  Anyway, it's too hard to leave the little island of comfort the four of them have created;  huddled together, nearly entwined, sharing their heat and their air.  The scent of them has become a sum greater than its parts, a whole new entity that Derek craves more than anything, the scent of _pack_ , yes, of _partner_ , of _home_ and _comfort_ and _acceptance_.  When Stiles leans in a little more, lets his arm slip around Derek's shoulder in a tentative hug, Derek is bewildered and awestruck to find that the predominant scent emanating from the long, pale neck so close to his nose is _mate_.

 

***

 

Stiles says they're staying over that night, and Derek doesn't even try to dissuade him.  He texts his dad and then sits quietly in his former position.  Derek is impressed:  he doesn’t think Stiles has ever maintained silence for so long.  It’s perfect, though.  Just what he needs.  Low-key and undemanding.  Their fingers touch as they stroke over the daemons, and the warm burr of it is at first healing and recuperative, and then slowly builds into a glow of anticipation.

Eventually, Stiles’ stomach rumbles, which makes Nisi startle, and Derek surprises himself with a little snort of amusement.  Stiles makes a clownish face before dragging him up and wandering into the kitchen to poke through the cabinets.  He keeps his fingers twined through Derek’s the whole time.

They have pasta with oil and salt because Derek's pantry isn't stocked, which makes Stiles wrinkle his nose and make a wry production out of starting a grocery list.  “Dude, what have you been living off of?  Rabbits and squirrels?”  However, Stiles patently doesn't object to the plain fare, wolfing down half a pound seemingly without inhaling.  Derek eats more carefully, wanting to play nice with his stomach.  He's brushed his teeth twice already, but the miasma of his earlier nausea still taunts his sensitive nose.

In bits and pieces, over the ensuing hours, Derek manages to communicate that he feels bad for having manhandled Stiles so often, that Stiles has been nothing but good to him in return.  Stiles laughs heartily at that.  “Dude.  Let me be the first to acknowledge that I can be an asshole.  Honestly, I _enjoy_ being an asshole.  Specialize in it, you might say.  Why do you think the pack are my only friends, huh?  I mean, who got you arrested and accused of murder... _twice_?  Eh?  Eh?  So.  You're a dick.  I'm a dick.  I think it works for us.  And uh, dude… I don't mind you pinning me against the occasional wall.”

Derek gives him the side eye, and Stiles stares right back, smirking but sincere.  

Comfortably settled on the back of the sofa, Sofer says something to Nisi, who cackles with glee and says, “Derek, he _gets off on it_ , duh.”

Stiles' face flushes bright when Derek laughs.  

They slouch shoulder to shoulder on the sofa in a post-dinner sprawl, and with this confirmation from Sofer (not that Derek hadn't smelled lust from Stiles on more than a few occasions), Derek decides to make a move.  A definite move.  A _sexual_ move.  All signs point to it being very welcome.  Stiles sits in an olfactory cloud of _arousal_ and _contentment_ and _mate_.  Derek curls his hand around the back of Stiles’ slender neck and is rewarded with the hitch in his breath, the double-speed _thud thud_ of his heart.

Derek’s confidence grows when Stiles makes a choking little noise in response to Derek’s thumb pressing just under his ear, rubbing small circles into his skin.  Nisi makes her _ch ch ch_ sound that means _go on, go ahead, you’re doing the right thing_ , generally reserved for when he’s scratching under her feathers.  Sofer’s purr gets a little louder, and when Derek looks at her, she gives him a slow wink of approval before standing up to lick Nisi’s beak.

Stiles judders at the contact between the daemons, so deliberate and sensual, and Derek hums, breathing him in.  He spiders his hand around the back of Stiles’ head, guiding it to rest on the sofa back.  Stiles opens his mouth to speak, but Derek just presses his other hand over Stiles’ lips.  He needs to.  Needs to.

The stretch of Stiles’ neck looks like some kind of moonlit road of destiny, and Derek runs his nose from the collar of his shirt right up to his ear, while Stiles shivers in his hands.  Humid and hot, short breaths hit where his fingers rest over Stiles’ opened mouth.

He scents through nose and mouth both, lips parted and chuffing breaths bouncing off Stiles’ skin to mingle with his scent.  Derek twists a little, rubbing the scruff of his cheek into Stiles neck.  He can hear blood rushing through the carotid under his jaw, hear the stiff bristle of his beard scraping across Stiles softer, more delicate skin.  It’s hypnotizing, being able to mark with such a deeply identified part of himself:  scents Laura had described as forest and loam and energy.  He turns Stiles’ head, mouths his way across a sharp, bobbing Adam’s apple as Stiles gasps and moans.  He’s gone pliant, liquid and obedient, and Derek shudders through a rush of his own power.

After carefully working on both sides of Stiles’ neck, Derek startles when the boy suddenly laughs.  “Are you _scent marking me_ , you throwback?  Is this a wolf thing?”

Derek growls, feeling... playful… flirtatious… something that hasn’t applied to him in what feels like many years.  Something brought out by Stiles’ patience and concern and trust, by the easy way he’s let Derek recover in his own time.  His mood is further buttressed by the amusement and indulgence of both daemons.

He smirks a response to Stiles’ question and, sliding his grip around the balls of Stiles’ shoulders, pushes him down into the cushions, feet left tangling untidily on the floor.  Stiles flails as he does it, the move unexpected, so Derek quickly captures his wrists before they hit something important, like his face, and pins them beside Stiles' head.

He leans in, chest brushing chest, and then waits, watching Stiles' pupils dilate, his breath shorten, his skin heat up.  “You like it,” he breathes into Stiles’ ear, scratching his scruff across Stiles’ smooth cheek.  The smell of Stiles is intoxicating:  warmth and _mate_ , and when the musky aroma of arousal joins it, Derek is lost.  “And you like the manhandling, too.”

“Um.  Well,” Stiles voice cracks and wavers.  “Not.  I mean.  Not if you're, like, gonna smash my head into the steering wheel.”

Reminded of his transgressions, Derek frowns and starts to pull back, which makes Stiles surge against him, mouth dropped open as it so often is, eyes wide and focused.  His face is positively elven at this distance, and Derek blinks.

“But that's not what this is,” Stiles blurts.  “This is.   _This_ is –”  he chokes on his words for a second, while Derek hovers over him, and then, shy, admits, “ – hot.”

Impressed by his honesty, Derek drops his weight down again, flexes his fingers around his wrists and seductively murmurs, “I can work with that,” against his skin.

Stiles bucks under him, and Derek laughs softly, the fractured bits inside him going through a seismic shift, coalescing into something strong and peaceful.  He flicks out his tongue and sucks in the lobe of Stiles' ear, the softly malleable flesh utterly enticing between his lips and on his tongue.  He pulls at it rhythmically, uses his teeth every so often, and is gratified to hear Stiles whine, feel him quiver and his wrists twitch as he tries to free them.  Derek teases his ear for a while, until Stiles is panting, stretched up taut against Derek's body.

“Derek.  Ohmygod –”

Derek moves down his neck, sucking and biting, marking him up, tasting him, scenting him.  Sofer purrs and Nisi does her soft, contented chortle.  Derek can feel them grooming one another, can feel all four of them relinquishing the tension of the last week, particularly the last few hours, as they melt into each other.

When Derek reaches Stiles’ mouth, it is with a sense of prescience.  It's softly parted and Derek can now admit that he'd always found Stiles’ plump lips and invitingly open mouth to be obscenely provocative:  Derek is nearly _vibrating_ with the urge to put something in there.  He takes a deep breath and then kisses along Stiles' bottom lip.  Just tugs it in enough to roll against his teeth before he moves to another spot, and then another, teasing around top and bottom lips until they are flushed and swelling from the persistent friction.

When he pulls back, Stiles' head cranes upwards, chasing Derek's mouth, trying for a proper kiss.  Stiles blinks dazed eyes at him, brought back to earth when Derek breathes a little laugh at his enthusiasm.

“You bastard,” Stiles snarks, frowning exaggeratedly.  “You’re such a fucking tease.  Just.  Kiss me already!”  He's demanding, but he radiates uncertainty as well, and it suddenly occurs to Derek to wonder how much experience Stiles has.  Testing it, he lowers his head again, meeting Stiles’ lips full-on.  Stiles is impatient, opening too soon, too wide, rushing for tongue before they're properly aligned, and Derek pulls back again, thinking, _not much experience, then_.  “Slow down, Stiles.”

Stiles undulates against him.  “Easy for you to say,” he mutters breathlessly.  “When you're the one driving.”

“Yep.” Derek pops the _p_ and smirks.  “Because you’re a _terrible_ driver.  We go at my pace.”

“Yeah, yeah, because _You’re the Alpha_.  Dude, your pace is _glacial_ ,” Stiles complains.  “It's been a _week_ and we've barely even talked.”

“Where's the fun in talking?”  Derek releases Stiles arms and cradles his head instead, tilting it up and framing it before he dips in.  Stiles lets him guide this time, imitates the movement of Derek's lips on his own while his hands are busy:  in Derek's hair, wrapping around his shoulders, sliding down his arms to curl around his biceps, which are bulging from holding himself up over Stiles.

Making out on the sofa is something Derek hasn't done in so long he can hardly remember it happening.  Possibly ten years ago, before his life had gone to hell.  Stiles is eager beneath him, and as they settle into a more comfortable position, with both their legs stretched out, he squirms until he's got their hips aligned.  But Derek reaches down to hold him still, thinking someone needs to keep his head, that because of Stiles’ clear lack of experience, they shouldn't just careen recklessly through an entire sexual repertoire in one evening.  Keeping it above the waist doesn't mean either of them isn't hard:  their erections must be as obvious to Stiles, pressed unyielding against his thighs, as they are to Derek, who can smell them like a hypnotic.

Eventually, they slow down.  It's late.  Nisi and Sofer are nearly asleep, tucked into a corner of the armchair nearby.  Sofer's tail is curled around the raven, and Derek and Stiles smile to see how black feathers are interwoven in soft white fur.

They hit the bathroom before moving to the bedroom, where Derek brushes his teeth for a _third_ time.  He unearths a spare toothbrush for Stiles, and they politely take turns before going to stand awkwardly beside the bed.  Sofer and Nisi have already come in and are settled near the footboard, each with one eye open, staring at their humans.  Stiles fidgets with his T-shirt, chewing on a bottom lip that’s juicy and red and looks well-used.  Derek feels heat flash over him at the sight, bizarrely possessive and cocky over the evidence of his assiduous debauching for the past several hours.

Staring straight at Stiles, Derek hooks an arm behind his head to tug off his shirt, dropping it carelessly to the side.  Stiles' eyes fix on his chest, and a flush sweeps across his face and sifts down his neck.  Grinning, Derek pops the button of his jeans and slowly slides the zip down.  Stiles' jaw drops along with it, and Nisi caws a little disparagingly from her nest inside Sofer's tail.  “Showoff,” she says, and Derek shrugs without looking at her.

“You can sleep in your clothes if you'll be more comfortable,” he says to Stiles as he steps out of his pants.  He's wearing gray, low-cut briefs, the only kind of underwear he can tolerate, and Stiles stares at them like they're the Rosetta Stone and he's got some translating to do.  Derek's cock, which had subsided over the duration of their extended snog, plumps up again under that hungry regard.  He saunters over to Stiles and toys with his shirt.  “But you might be a little hot if you wear all this,” he murmurs deliberately.

Stiles jumps like he's been poked, and snaps his mouth closed before snorting inelegantly.  “Yeah, I'm _definitely_ feeling overheated.”

He's so cheeky, and it just feeds Derek's lonely soul.  Seduction and sex is one thing, but connection, warmth, understanding, these have been lacking in his life for a very long time.  He twists thin cotton around his fingers, stretching the _Stud Muffin_ image temporarily out of shape.  “Let me help then,” he says, and slowly guides it up, until Stiles has to raise his arms like a child to have it dragged over his head and flung away.  Derek doesn't watch it fall, only steps closer and runs his hands up Stiles' flanks and around to cup sharp shoulder blades.  They get distracted, then, Derek scenting Stiles' neck as the boy drapes his body against the solid support of Derek's.  Stiles' hands roam restlessly, as though trying to measure the shape and density of each of his muscles.

When Derek moves back, just a step, he's ready to focus his efforts on Stiles' pants.  But Stiles beats him to it with a characteristic lack of suavity, unsnapping the top and getting the zipper stuck, tripping over the waistband as he tries to pull his legs free.  His boxers are soft and loose, the sort of non-color that denotes many washings, and Derek really wants to _touch_.

Instead, he winds up catching Stiles as he pitches over, pants gracelessly tangled around one knee and the other ankle.  But he just laughs, and Stiles' initial mortification ripens into laughter as well.  The two of them fall into bed smiling, and Derek can't think of a better way to do it.

 

***

 

Over the next few weeks, Stiles comes by after school every day he can.  Derek makes sure he does his homework before they move to the sofa:  just because he’s a senior doesn’t mean he can slack off.  Stiles grumbles about it, but does his assignments cheerfully enough, while Derek slowly works his way through a battered copy of _Moby Dick_.  The supernatural world is obligingly inactive, which neither of them dares to point out, in case it tempts the fates.

They usually have a couple of hours before Stiles has to go home to cook dinner for his dad, which they spend necking on the couch.  It’s innocent and a little frustrating, and Stiles complains loudly about their lack of forward motion, but doesn’t actually seem to mean it.  Derek has his own reasons for wanting to go slow, and he’s pretty sure Stiles knows them.  He hasn’t mentioned Kate Argent, but Stiles specializes in leaps of intuition, and he’d made a point of asking how old Derek was when he first met Kate.  It’s the only question he’s ever asked about Derek’s past, because in spite of his notorious social awkwardness, Stiles is surprisingly empathetic.

And, of course, Nisi spills secrets the same way Derek hoards them, so surely Sofer knows his history by now.  Derek’s glad he doesn’t have to recount the whole sordid tale out loud.  That Stiles knows, whether through his own deduction or Nisi’s blabbing, is evident in the way he never actually pushes Derek physically into a more intimate action that what they’re currently doing.

So, a couple of months later, _StilesandDerek_ is an accepted thing, and the pack has _finally_ found other targets for their good-natured teasing.  Sofer creeping out of her hiding place in Stiles’ shirt to cuddle with Derek caused a good deal of commotion at first, but now the pack are at last accustomed to seeing her.  (And universally cooed over how adorable she was, too.  And no one asked about the wicked scar across her face, which relieved Derek, as he really didn’t want to thrash pack members over his new _boyfriend_ at this point.)

Stiles has his own toothbrush, and his own towel, and his and Sofer’s favorite snack foods (Cheetos and live crickets, respectively) are now permanently on the grocery list.  When Derek sits down with his book and coffee on a weekday morning, a cloud of _Stiles-Derek-lust-happiness-mates_ puffs out of the sofa cushions and wraps comfortingly around him.  It’s better than a security blanket, and this is possibly the most light-hearted Derek has been in years.  (Laura would say he was feeling _gay_ , with one eyebrow up and a droll expression, and then laugh her fool head off at his blush.)  Nisi, sharp and condescending, wonders why it took Derek so long to realize what they needed and how to go get it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Apollyon in Greek means Destroyer, heh


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's your porn!

Derek wakes up one Sunday, some months in, with Stiles wrapped in his arms, held tight against his side, breath teasing hot and damp across his chest.  Nisi and Sofer are on what had been Stiles' pillow before he migrated onto Derek sometime in the night.  Possibly because the daemons kicked him off of it.  Nisi's soft morning chuckling is familiar to Derek, and he’s adjusted to it accompanying her grooming of Sofer rather than himself.  When Derek lifts his head to look, Sofer's eyes are slitted in pleasure, and Derek can hear her swiftly oscillating purr, feel the subtle vibration of it through the mattress.

His body feels liquid and warm, buzzing with the reflected contentment of the two snuggled daemons.  Stiles stirs, stretching a bit before curling back into Derek's heat, nuzzling into the fur of his chest.  Derek rolls his head downwards, pushing his nose into Stiles' softly bristled hair, breathing in the human scent of him.

The daemons are too relaxed for Derek to feel any worries or inhibitions, their tranquility and acceptance a subtle incentive to take it further.  As Sofer turns to lick at Nisi's feathery beak, Derek noses down Stiles' scalp and sucks lightly on the crest of his ear, finishing up with a small nip.  Stiles hums and shivers, sliding his hand further around Derek's waist to grip hard, using the leverage to pull himself closer.  Octopus-like, he wraps a leg over both of Derek's, and Derek can feel the length of his erection behind thin boxers, sliding intriguingly up against him.

“Mmmm,” Derek murmurs, nonsensical, the noise no more or less meaningful than Nisi's gentle croaks or Sofer's purr.  He spreads his hands over Stiles' back, smoothing his way across pale skin, feeling a peculiar flutter in his belly whenever he skates over the bump of a mole.

Stiles’ body is a lean, sinuous curve:  the rise of his skull dipping into the valley of his neck, up again over the ropey muscle of shoulder before the long descent towards the base of his spine, dotted with the salience of vertebrae, the scattershot of his beauty marks.  Derek finds the endless stretch of him addicting and  _novel_ , traces it all before moving smoothly further down.  

They've kept it above the waist until now, but with the serene confidence of the two daemons urging him on, Derek at last feels no hesitation over striking out into new territory.  He strokes languidly over the swell of Stiles' ass, smoothing bunched up boxers, before curling his hands, hot and possessive, around the pert globes.  They are perfectly sized at a handful apiece and Derek murmurs in appreciation.  He indulges in not only the physical reward of touching Stiles in such an intimate place, but also the emotional satisfaction:  a sense of  _finally_ and  _mine_ and a nearly awestruck gratitude.  That Stiles will let him do this.  That Stiles  _wants_ this.

He knows, listening to the slowly escalating heartbeat, that Stiles is sleepily playing possum, but even if he were totally asleep, Derek needs no more than glance at Sofer to be reassured that his touch is welcome.

 _Gluteus_ muscles shift as Stiles startles at his grasping hands, fully awake now, and flexes his hips forward to once again slide his cock against Derek's thigh, this time with purpose.  A high noise almost like a whine washes over Derek's chest, and Derek doesn't even try to smother the little smile evoked by Stiles' sweet sounds.

Derek rumbles in response as he grips around the tops of each of Stiles’ thighs, fingers dipping inside his underpants to inquisitively reach into the sultry space just behind his balls.  

Stiles gasps and squirms, an almost unconscious undulation rippling down his body.  “Derek,” he mumbles, stretching his head back, mouthing at Derek's jaw.  “Mmmm.  Feels good.  Don't stop.”  He hitches his leg up further, opening himself more to Derek's fingers.

Derek pauses, shuddering at that solid weight dragging heavily over his cock, even through the fabric of his briefs.  In spite of Stiles' unspoken invitation, he can't resist grabbing Stiles' knee, using it as leverage to rock him gently up and down, imposing a slow rhythm over Stiles' abortive thrusts.

“Fuck.  Derek.” Stiles hand claws at his shoulder, then traps his face and pulls him in for a kiss.

It only takes a moment before mouths that were sticky and dry become soft and wet, saliva flowing as their tongues work against each other, as lip closes over lip, sucking and tugging.  When he runs out of breath, Stiles doesn't move his mouth, just pants for air right there, smelling sourly of  _morning_ and sweetly of  _mate_ , paradoxically registering as both exotic and familiar.  He begins to investigatively pet at Derek's chest, squeezing rounded pectoral muscle with the same rhythm he uses to rut against Derek's leg.  Derek growls when he boldly pinches the nipple under his palm.

Stiles laughs and pushes up onto his elbow, supporting his weight on the hand braced on Derek's chest, fingers still gently circling his aureole.  “ _Oh, yeah._ You’re definitely a nipple guy.”

Derek rolls his eyes and groans.  “Never say that again,” he mock-threatens, while Nisi titters from her nest with Sofer on Stiles' pillow.  Staring up into the sleepy, satisfied face hovering over his own, Derek cannot help but feel smug and happy.  Stiles lips are wet, mouth invitingly open.  His upturned nose is irresistible, flanked by pink-flushed, mole-spangled cheeks.  But mostly, it is his eyes, glowing like amber in the slanted morning sunlight, crinkled with happiness and glossed with arousal, that have Derek enthralled.  He flashes his own eyes red out of instinct, and Stiles blushes further.

When Derek asks with quirked brows if he can remove Stiles' boxers, slipping his fingers under the waistband and waiting, Stiles moans, “Oh, god,  _finally_ ,” and rolls over before Derek can do anything, to worm out of them himself.  While Stiles kicks out of his underwear, legs thrashing in the air and somehow reminiscent of an overturned pillbug, Derek sweeps his own briefs off as well, dumping them over the side of the bed.

Then he rolls enough to grab Stiles by his hips, positioning him firmly on top of Derek, and both of them freeze for a second, bodies aligned nearly perfectly, hips and cocks, thighs and chests.  

It doesn't feel like this is their first time skin to skin.

It feels inevitable, and comfortable.  

Stiles wiggles, breath coming in short little pants, and his eyes darken further, pupils expanding into depthless pools.  Derek leans up, licking around the opened _O_ of Stiles' mouth and has a fleeting fantasy of it circling his cock, of looking down into Stiles' face instead of up, of Stiles' hands wrapped around his thighs, clever fingers working behind his legs and into the crease of his ass.

Stiles shudders and moans at the messy pass of Derek's tongue, turns to chase it too late as Derek moves to the hinge of his jaw, bites a little too hard into the blue-veined skin under his ear.  “Oh, god, Derek – ”  Stiles splays his legs around Derek for balance and surges forward, pushing against Derek's mouth and hips, the rub of their cocks too hard and too dry, caught between the crude pressure of their bodies.  “God.  I've wanted.  This.”

Derek knows exactly what he means.  It feels like everything is burning and itching, and the only relief is the pressure and friction of Stiles' body.  His eyes want to see nothing more than the pale scope of Stiles' skin and the luminous arousal painting his face.  “I want it, too.  Stiles.  Want to taste you –.”

Derek scarcely waits for Stiles enthusiastic nod before he uses Stiles’ momentum to heave him further up to kneel at the headboard, sliding himself down at the same time.  Before Stiles has time to react, Derek is exactly where he wants to be, between Stiles' legs, looking up past the pink sac of his scrotum, still swinging from his sudden movement, the red length of his erection (neatly cut, Derek notices, crown delicate and unprotected), the lean curve of his belly and chest.  Stiles sways forward to grab the headboard for support, and looks down at Derek, surprise snapping his delectable mouth closed.  “Derek?”

Derek can't keep his hands from sweeping over Stiles' skin:  it is so smooth, so warm and supple under his palms, every stretch and curve of his body long and lissome, offering the promise of tantalizing erotic potential yet unlocked.  Derek could wrap his hands easily around Stiles' flanks, thumbs against his belly and fingertips bumping over ribs on his back, and finds himself wanting to do that, wanting to spend days and weeks doing nothing more than measuring how Stiles' naked body fits against his own.

He looks up and begs, “Stiles.  Please.  Let me.”  His control fades as his fervency grows, and his hips thrust into the air, much too far behind Stiles to give himself any relief.  “Let me.”

Stiles nods vigorously, clearly of the opinion that there is nothing Derek could do from this position that would be  _objectionable_.  “Yeah.  Derek.  Anything you want.  Just tell me what to do.”

Derek doesn't pause, but makes use of his permission by lifting his head, straining on his neck, and pressing his nose and mouth into the wiry hair surrounding Stiles' cock.  He breathes in deeply, mouth open,  _tasting_ Stiles' essence, the heated, tangy smell of his arousal, of the precome slipping down the side of his cock, of the morning's contentment and ardency.

He can smell, too, the more visceral, earthier musk from further down, concentrated inside the rondeur of Stiles' ass, and it makes Derek want to howl, makes him mad for it:  wanting to bury himself in that secret, that darkness; wanting to tease out each unique flavor that makes up the whole of Stiles.  He pulls Stiles' cheeks apart, massaging and releasing again and again as he breathes in, licking everywhere he can:  the juncture of groin and thigh, the veined column of the base of Stiles' cock, the crinkled seam of his sac, sucking in one testicle and then the other, thoroughly intoxicated by pheromones and  _mate_.

Stiles shivers and rocks above him, holding so tightly to the headboard that his fists are stripes of red and white, unconsciously spreading his knees to put him closer to Derek's mouth.  A broken litany of  _Oh god, Oh fuck, Derek Derek Derek, wanna taste you too_ falls around them.

If Derek has any rational thought left in his brain at this point, it is that Stiles shouldn't be able to form words, that he should be as incoherent as Derek.  So after licking once, twice across Stiles’ hole, tongue lingering on the pintucked whorls of skin, he pulls himself away, maneuvering Stiles to the side, pushing him down until he lies diagonally across the bed.  He is pliant and amenable, eyes enormous and intent;  allows Derek to arrange him as he pleases, and the serrated edges of Stiles' short, desperate breaths are deeply satisfying.

When Derek tumbles next to Stiles again, they are comfortably sixty-nined, each aligned at the groin of the other.  Derek honestly doesn't care, at this point, if Stiles actually wants to touch him or taste him or anything.  He just quickly lifts Stiles’ leg across his chest and dives back in, rolling onto his back and carrying Stiles with him.  Blindly, he grabs a pillow and shoves it under his head, only half hearing the disapproving squawks and growls as Nisi and Sofer are sent flying.  

“Have a care, Derek!”  Nisi admonishes sharply from the floor next to the bed where she settles next to a scolding Sofer.  “You weren't the only one on the bed, you great, clumsy wolf.”

Stiles snorts, stomach pushing and contracting against his own, and Derek stops to smile.

“Sorry, Nisi,” he mumbles into the join of Stiles' legs.

“Don't apologize to _me_ , Casanova,” Nisi replies pertly.  “I've got wings, haven't I?  It's Sofer you just dumped on the floor.”  

Derek really,  _really_ doesn't want to move, tracing short patterns into Stiles' perineum with his nose, but he does extend an arm and drape it as far over the bed as he can  reach, wiggling his fingers for Sofer.  “Sorry, Sofer,” he says, and Stiles laughs again.  Sofer chatters softly, and then nips at his finger with needle-sharp teeth.

Stiles props himself on his elbows with another snort, but leaves his head bent down.  His lips move across Derek's jumping cock as he speaks, “She says it's not the first time a giant oaf has flung her out of bed, and it likely won't be the last.  She has her ways of getting revenge.”

Derek opens his mouth to reply, but merely groans instead as wet lips and blunt teeth stair-step their way gently from the base of his cock to the dampening tip.  Wings flutter in the background, and then Nisi appears on the bed next to Stiles' shoulder.  She runs her beak gently behind his ear, making him come up for air with a smile.  “Aw.  Hey, Nisi,” he says, and twists his arm to stroke her gently.

Derek sucks in a breath at the contact, shivers under Stiles' ghostly radiated touch, and Nisi clucks and coos for a moment before she moves down the bed to Derek, croaking her rattling, conversational sound and pointedly drops the tube of lubricant she holds in one claw near his hand.  “Sofe says be careful not to hurt him, that he's not done this before.”

“I know that,” Derek answers quietly, but when Nisi coasts off the side of the bed to curl up on Stiles' discarded clothes with Sofer, Derek moves to rest the side of his face against Siles' inner thigh.

“So, you're a virgin, right?” he asks, just to be sure.  It’s ironic, given that Stiles has been patiently waiting on  _Derek_ to be ready for this, rather than the other way around.

Stiles chokes and spasms before his weight suddenly comes down heavier on Derek as he groans theatrically.  “Oh my god.  Sofer!” he admonishes.  “That's –”

Derek interrupts, running his hands up the length of Stiles' back until they rest on either side of his neck, massaging gently.  “Do you want to stop?  Or – or slow down, maybe?”  

Stiles twists to look at Derek, but their orientation makes that nearly impossible, and he finally buries his face in the seam of Derek's thighs instead, biting sharply at the softer skin there.  “No!” he says.  “I'm fine.  I mean.  I've wanted this for a long time.”  He cuts himself off and then groans again.  “Thanks, Sofe,” he grouses.  “Way to kill the mood.”

Nisi caws her laughter.  “We're sure you'll get back up to speed,” she says, and Sofer, yipping sharply, seems to agree.  The broadcast of the daemons' indulgence is palpable, and Derek and Stiles experience simultaneous frissons as Sofer and Nisi snuggle back together.

Derek runs his hands back down to Stiles' waist, made even narrower by the way he stretches out over Derek.  “Okay, Stiles.” He smirks a little.  “We don't have to stop.  I have no intention of stopping unless you tell me you're uncomfortable, alright?”

“Hells yeah,  _I’m gonna go all the way_ ,” Stiles crows jubilantly. “Punchin that V-card at last!”

Derek closes his eyes in faux second-hand embarrassment and shakes with stifled laughter.  “Not sure I want to anymore, if you're gonna be like that about it,” he wheezes.

Stiles scrapes his teeth across Derek’s hip.  “Shut up.”  

Derek pauses, checking, but while he smells discomfiture and a steady level of desire, there’s no anxiety.

Stiles smacks the bed with one hand.  “Fuck, what a stupid interruption.  Sofer, you need to stay quiet.  Alpha mine, you need to get back to what you were doing.  I can’t believe you’re sitting there with your fucking  _face_ in my fucking  _crotch_ , asking if I’m fine with this.  Go, go,  _go_!”  His voice is light, but now that Derek listens for it, he can hear the thread of uncertainty underneath.

The daemons don't retort, and Derek hums his acquiescence as well, but changes his tactics a little.  Instead of going straight for Stiles' enticing hole, he lifts Stiles by the hips until his cock is where Derek wants it, easy to swallow.  

Stiles shouts in surprise as he is lifted, and then gurgles awkwardly when Derek swallows him down, body flinching and twitching spasmodically.  “Oh god, oh god, oh  _fuck_ , Derek.”  He eventually manages to relax, lets Derek lift and lower him, utterly trusting that he can support his weight (and of course he can, Stiles' entire body is negligible to Derek's werewolf strength, much less just his lower half).  Stiles makes a valiant effort to suck on Derek as well, but it is sloppy and haphazard as he quivers and groans, so overwhelmed.

Derek works him with all the tricks he has, laving the head, fluttering his tongue insistently on the frenulum, plunging Stiles deep enough to hit the back of his throat and swallowing around him before starting up again.  Sofer's whimper is the first hint that Stiles is going to tip over.  Derek redoubles his efforts, concentrating on the crown, tongue constantly moving, curling around everything it can touch.  He supports Stiles with one hand and uses the other to work the base of his cock, grip firm and motions fast.  Stiles gives a violent jolt and a near-silent keen before he begins to come, gasping and moaning unintelligibly as Derek swallows his seed, sucking at his cock with intense focus, pulling out the bitter fluid, coaxing Stiles body into ecstasy and release with an exigent kind of pride.

Stiles comes down slowly, shuddering with aftershocks for long minutes as Derek lowers him gently to his chest, kissing and licking at his inner thighs and rubbing soothing hands over all the skin he can reach.  Stiles lies limply across his body;  his mate’s weight on him, and the trust it implies, makes Derek want to roar, suffuses him with a fierce, primitive sense of possession and satisfaction.  Stiles' face presses into his thigh as he catches his breath, and one hand clutches Derek's erection with the heedless determination of a toddler with a favored toy.  Derek throbs in his grip, and the stentorian boom of his heart drowns out the gradually slowing beat of Stiles' and the daemons’ rapid patter.

Derek thinks of that day months ago, of the dark chasm in his soul when he was so foolishly convinced that Nisi would leave him.  When he was yet so terrified of both abandonment and betrayal, of the rejection that would inevitably come with exposing his feelings and his needs, that he kept Stiles away... even to the point of rudely ignoring his tentative overtures.  Days when all he felt was fear and guilt and pain.  And now, with Stiles sprawled on top of him and his throat powdery with the bitter residue of ejaculate, Derek cannot believe how far they've come and how  _good_ it feels.

Without giving Stiles more time to recover, because Derek is impatient, he adjusts his pillow to lift his head further and opens the cheeks of Stiles' ass, exposing his damp, darkened anus, a tight little twist hidden in wetted hairs to either side.  Derek starts on it again, lapping in long strokes, letting saliva flow, dribble down Stiles' cleft and Derek's chin.

Derek pulls him closer to his face and buries his nose in hot skin, opening his lips around the softening bud of Stiles' hole.  He sucks in an unhurried, pulsing motion, holding him open with one hand while the other skates between their bodies to pinch at Stiles' nipple.

Gradually, the smell of Stiles’ growing excitement overcomes the scent of his repletion;  more pheromones seeping into the air that Derek gulps desperately into his mouth and nose.  Sweat drips down his temples and greases the slide of their bodies.  He can feel it dewing Stiles' skin as well, adding salt to the taste of him as it concentrates in the meridian of his ass.

Stiles gradually unfurls under Derek's lingual determination, the skin of his rim smooths out and a tiny opening appears for Derek to exploit.  He does, pointing the muscle of his tongue and wiggling it inside.  Stiles cries out, body jerking futilely against Derek's hold.  His moans transition to uninhibited wails as Derek thrusts in and out, and Stiles' cock hardens again against the hollow of Derek's neck.  

The pinch of his body around Derek's tongue, the soft, hot insistence of his insides surrounding it everywhere, so much more intense than a mouth, so close and so tight, works Derek into a frenzy.  He groans loud and deep, and Stiles whimpers, twitching as the noise vibrates inside of him.  “F– fu–  _fuck_ ,” he stutters breathlessly.  “Fuck.   _Fuck_ ,” pressing his hot face into Derek’s thigh.

As much as Derek wants to stop and tease him for his lack of eloquence, his body is in control, and demands nothing more than to be buried inside his mate.  He fumbles for the tube of lubricant that Nisi had so considerately delivered and squirts a mess of it onto his hand.  He replaces his tongue with his thumb easily;  so easily, because Stiles is relaxed and open under his mouth, spine undulating over the bulwark of Derek's body.

“Oh, yeah.  Yes–”  Stiles seems to suddenly remember that he might be between Derek's legs for a reason, and pushes himself up to attend to Derek’s cock.  But Derek is having none of it, and knocks his elbows out from under him.  “No,” he grits.  “Don't.  Later.”

Stiles opens his mouth, and it may have been to speak, but right then Derek shifts and slides in thumb and forefinger both.  So instead Stiles flails his arms out and then claws them down along Derek's calves, mewling.  Derek vaguely registers Nisi's chatter, and Sofer's purr, but pays it little mind.  Instead, he is entranced at the sight of his fingers, plunging deep into Stiles' welcoming ass.  Derek strains forward and licks between them, indifferent to the taste of lubricant, just hypnotized by the bony span of his fingers contrasting with the velvet inside Stiles.  He holds Stiles firmly immobile as he fingers and licks and licks, his own cock jumping at every writhe and every whine the boy makes.

“Please,” Stiles gasps, finally.  “Fuck.  Please.  Derek, I want you to–”

Derek maneuvers Stiles off his face with a final bite to his bottom, feeling positively feral.  He wipes the mess off of his chin with his forearm and then tugs Stiles around until they are face to face.  He knows his eyes are red, can feel the pressure of fang and claw as his control deteriorates.  But he grabs at his own restraint with a kind of moiling determination, reining himself back;  because he doesn't want to hurt Stiles, never wants to hurt Stiles.

He rolls on top of him and cups his cheek in his hand.  “Stiles,” he rasps,  “are you okay?”

“What?  Yes!  Ohmygod, Derek, yes!” Stiles looks wild as well, hair damp with sweat and the flush of passion coloring his face and shoulders in stark contrast to his usual pale skin.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” Derek grits out, dropping his head down to press against Stiles'.  He closes his eyes and runs his nose over the sharp crest of Stiles' cheek.  “Are you ready for that?”   _Please, please, please_ , he thinks.   _Please say yes_.

He doesn’t even register Nisi’s cackle and the little growl Sofe contributes, all his senses focused on Stiles;  the humid smell of him, the pounding of his heart, the swelter of flesh pressed against his own.

“Yeah.  Dude.  Jesus, Derek.  Yeah.  And we, um–”  Derek can  _hear_ Stiles' pulse, the stall and rush of his blood as it races through his veins in accordance with his pounding heart.  The smell of sex is overwhelming, and Derek grinds down even as Stiles spreads his legs wider and lifts them around Derek's waist.  “Scott said that.  Would it be okay if we.  No condoms?”

This makes Derek growl, fierce and urgent, speechless in the face of everything that is Stiles:  so naïf and so very brave with it.  “Werewolves can't get or spread diseases,” he agrees.  (And hoo boy, was that an awkward conversation he’d had with Laura, staring in mortification at the bare floor in their New York loft as she’d talked.)  “But it  _is_ a little messier.”  Even as he speaks, his heart drums  _please, please, please_ again, and the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck lift at the thought of coming inside Stiles, of despoiling him, of watching his own seed fill him up and slowly dribble out.  He wants to know the scent of his mate: satisfied and filled to the brim with him, owned and protected and… loved.

“Do it,” Stiles mutters, flexing his hips frantically under Derek.

Derek positively salivates as the tantalizing musk of Stiles' arousal wafts around them every time their bodies move apart and back together.  His stomach swoops and soars, quivering dizzily when Stiles begins to chant, “Do it.  Do it.  Dammit.  Ohmygod, fuck – ”

Derek doesn't wait any longer, just moves to kneel between Stiles' legs and roll them up, hands guiding from the undersides of his thighs, holding them open and exposing the lewd vellication of his anus to Derek's avid view.

Stiles is shameless, grabbing his cock with one hand and pushing the other between his legs, curiously fingering the slight gape of his hole, rubbing around to gather lube before pushing inside himself.  He gasps at the feeling, and Derek grinds his teeth and closes his eyes hard against the sight.  But Stiles’ little pants and moans make him look again:  he has two fingers pulsing in and out, and strokes his cock in a jerky counter-rhythm.

Derek slides his arms under Stiles knees and then up to his shoulders, pulling his hands away from himself and pinning them by his head.  “You aren't going to wait for me?” he teases.  “Going to do it all by yourself?  A one-man show?”

“You're taking forever!” Stiles pants.

Well, Derek can't have that.  He bumps his cock into Stiles, letting it slip in the wet mess Derek has made of him until it catches on the rim and then, holding his breath, he slowly works it inside.  Stiles face goes curiously blank at the sensation, his inward focus and concentration reminding Derek of watching him work his  _Google-fu_ at the computer.  He sees no sign of discomfort, though, and keeps pushing until he is fully enveloped, thighs pressed tightly to Stiles' ass.

Sofer whines and yips, and then chatters intently.

“Fucking  _hell_ , Sofe,” Stiles moans, eyes snapping open.  “Quit fucking backseat driving.”

Nisi chuffs and Derek hears her feathers as her wings flap, moving the air a bit before the daemons settle down.

Derek's brows draw together.  “Are you okay?”  He can feel his heartbeat throbbing through his cock, transmitting the most vital part of him to his mate, and can't help a small movement, in and out, almost immeasurable.  He watches as Stiles' eyes roll back at that, face flushed red, damp and dazed, mouth dropping open in astonishment.

Stiles nods and makes as if to speak, but nothing but a breath escapes him.  Then he suddenly shudders deeply, and Derek watches goosebumps come and go as the frisson crests and fades over his skin.  

Stiles’ fingers clutch at Derek wildly, and Derek squeezes back.  “I've got you,” he breathes, rests his forehead on Stiles', “I've got you.”

Stiles gazes fuzzily back before lunging in for a kiss, fingers digging into the backs of Derek's hands where they press into the mattress over his own.  Derek kisses back, coaxing Stiles' tongue into his mouth and sucking on it in tiny pulses that he begins to echo with his hips:  scant centimeters of movement at a time.  Stiles pushes up harder, until their teeth collide, flexing his fingers and rocking his hips from side to side, the only movements he is capable of, immobilized by Derek in every other way.

Derek ends the kiss, lifts up far enough to read Stiles’ face, and then moves his hips in longer slides.  Each stroke makes him shiver:  the slow exit pulling at the sensitive skin of his cock, the transition from wet heat to the chill bite of air, and then driving in once more.  For a few minutes, Derek only does that, in and out, watching as Stiles grows increasingly debauched, sweaty and desperate, his cock leaping as it is rubbed between their bellies.

Derek's muscles begin grow more rigid, thighs knotting and shaking with strain, the precipice approaching.  Derek concentrates on targeting Stiles' prostate now, after having only brushed it cursorily a few times when he was fingering him earlier.  He shifts on his knees, swivels his hips, tries a few different angles until Stiles suddenly emits a helpless yelp and small spasm.

“There you are,” Derek flashes a predatory grin as rippling tremors radiate from his groin to every point on his body.  He abandons language and dedicates himself to working the new angle, driving in and out faster and harder, letting his body's urgency dictate the speed and power of his thrusts.

Stiles tosses his head from side to side, whining and moaning as Derek pounds in and out, in and out, strokes gliding against his prostate, the scuffing hairs and ridged muscles of Derek's abdomen clearly an electrifying abrasion on Stiles' cock, trapped between them.  It is all fiery sensation for both of them, caught up completely in the world of their bodies, their need, hot and stormy, mysteries unveiled as they stare into each other's eyes, sharing each gasping breath.

Then Stiles begins to thrash and tremble, legs clamping over Derek's biceps and arms straining against Derek's hold.  Back arched and head pushed into the mattress, he climaxes hard, silently, jetting come and enhancing the slide of their bodies.

Derek, looking down, thinks this is probably the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, and is able to briefly detach from sheer physical euphoria for long enough to feel reverence, to feel their connection and that of the daemons who have gone silent beside them.  Derek's muscles lock tight, almost as if to hold the moment forever, and all the fire of their efforts sizzles in his blood and under his skin and bursts free from his cock, rushing to find a new home in Stiles,

Just as Derek has found a home in Stiles.

Derek holds for a moment after the last pulse of ejaculate, can't help but roll his hips indolently:  the loose slide of his softening erection through the come inside of Stiles unbearably erotic.  He rubs their bellies together over Stiles' spent cock, making him judder and laugh, staring at Derek with eyes that are softer now, relaxed and happy and reflecting back the same wonderment that Derek himself feels.

He distantly acknowledges how thankful he is to have been kidnapped, because it brought Nisi and Sofer together, broke down the walls between all of them, let them see this joining as a possibility.

Stiles works his clean hand free of Derek’s grip and threads his fingers through Derek's sweat-dampened hair, pulls him down for a long kiss that turns into two and three and more.  Kisses him even as Derek's arms shake, and he has to drop himself to the side, pulling indelicately out of Stiles so as not to crush him.  Stiles doesn't flinch at the withdrawal, but does whine and immediately roll over on top of Derek, legs still spread around him as if he doesn't know another way to be.

Derek smiles, craning his head to suck lazily on Stiles' neck while sliding his fingers around the mound of Stiles' ass, pushing two of them back inside, pumping salaciously through the squelch of come and lube, tracing the rim with his thumb and feeling nothing less than languorous satiation and satisfaction.

Nisi flaps over and settles on the small of Stiles' back, making him twitch as her sharp nails dig into his skin.  She casually examines where Derek's fingers still idly pump.  “Messy,” she comments.  “But it certainly did feel good.”

Derek rolls his eyes, and is about to translate to Stiles’ curiously raised eyebrows when Sofer scrabbles up.  She daintily picks her way across the rumpled blankets before dropping down into the crook of Derek's neck.  She licks him a few times, chatters to Stiles, and then tucks her nose into her tail.

Stiles huffs with laughter and snuggles his face into the other side of Derek's neck.  “She says we should do that again and often.”

Nisi chuckles her agreement before settling down, and Derek presses his lips against Stiles’ damp forehead.  “Definitely,” he murmurs, finally withdrawing his fingers from the hot mess in Stiles' ass, but still lightly massaging where they had been, Stiles legs trustingly splayed to either side of his hips.  “Again and often.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Interesting note on the word _depthless_. It paradoxically manages to mean unfathomably deep AND shallow and superficial SIMULTANEOUSLY. Words are cool.
> 
> I don’t know whether or not to call this my first Teen Wolf story, since I’ve got some 40k words of another one in the works (mute! sub!Stiles, kidnapping and whump… _so much whump_ , such shameless self-indulgence... with a lovely protective Dom!Derek.) but I was hit with an utterly rude and obdurate writer's block back in January, and _nothing has happened since then_. So I’m really quite thankful I read [ zoemathemata](http://archiveofourown.org/users/zoemathemata/pseuds/zoemathemata)'s story and it inspired me to get my dusty notebook back out. I am hoping that this will kickstart my motivation and get me to finish my D/s TW work. Meanwhile, _Hi Teen Wolf fandom. My name is Mojo. It’s nice to meet you. I’ve been lurking for quite a long time._ (Ha, I just looked and I have over 500 Sterek fics bookmarked. So, yeah, a lurker.)
> 
> I [Tumbl](http://mojoflower.tumblr.com/), if you’re interested in multi-fandom squee. It is NSFW, so consider yourselves warned. Actually, I do Penis Friday so if you check it out today, DON’T DO IT IN PUBLIC. You may see nothing but gay porn. Which is delightful in private, but terribly awkward in front of your coworkers.
> 
> I’m aware this isn’t my best work (although the lovely betas who contributed their time did a lot to lipstick up my pig, and I am so grateful). But I decided to shove it out into the world anyway, mostly because I’m tired of looking at it.
> 
> I hope y’all will join me for _**[Do Not Go Gentle](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5758180)**_ (my D/s fic), which I aspire to finish this month and begin posting in January. Author subscribe for notification, if my tumbling doesn’t appeal to you.
> 
> ***If y'all want some porny-nsfw-gif visuals for this story (or just want to reblog a post to help me get some visibility in this fandom), I have [this one,](http://mojoflower.tumblr.com/post/134533014880/derek-cant-keep-his-hands-from-sweeping-over) [this one](http://mojoflower.tumblr.com/post/134533672280/without-giving-stiles-more-time-to-recover), and [this one](http://mojoflower.tumblr.com/post/134570251945/porny-epilogue-now-with-added-angst) (which is slightly more sfw).


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